Mantras
by Mylos
Summary: Five frantic situations and the unconscious mantras our intrepid musketeers use to focus their way through. (Five one-shots). Plus a few bonus mantras.
1. It's Fine

1\. "It's fine."

-/-

 _"_ _It's fine it's fine it's fine,"_ d'artagnan rattled over and over again in rapid breathlessness, then cried out as his leg jerked. "Sorr—aaahhh—it's fine. It's _fine_. It's fine."

Athos's hand pressed down over his chest, pinning him back to the rugged table.

"Hold his leg," said Aramis calmly.

Too calmly, d'Artagnan thought as he shuddered and gasped.

 _It's fine it's fine it's fine._

 _It's fine._

Porthos's strong hand closed around his ankle, gentle but immobilizing. Uncompromising. "Steady, Charles. Steady."

D'Artagnan blinked, glanced at Porthos in confusion and his lungs paused. None of them had ever called him by his first name before.

Porthos smiled, keeping eye contact.

A sudden stabbing sensation burrowed through d'Artagnan's thigh, ripping his brain back to the matter at hand and tearing a cry from his throat.

Seconds later he heard the clank of metal against metal as the musket ball formerly residing in his flesh was dropped into a bowl. He turned his head. In his hazy field of vision, he saw Athos standing at Aramis's shoulder, removing one of Aramis's long metal tools from the medic's bloody hands and replacing it with a clean cloth.

Aramis noticed him watching. "There there, all done," he smiled. "First one in the leg is always the hardest."

D'Artagnan tried to process that. Frowned. "First?" he slurred.

"Well, only, hopefully."

"Dare it be possible," Athos drolled.

Exhaustedly rolling his head in the other direction, d'Artagnan found Porthos's eyes again. "That was a dirty trick," he mumbled.

Porthos grinned and patted his chest. "I don't know what you mean. But Aramis is right – leg's a hard one – so you best get yourself some rest."

D'Artagnan blinked his blurry eyes closed without being able to stop himself, and so only barely caught Porthos' wink.

 _"—_ _Charles."_

 _-/-_

 _(1/5)_


	2. Stay Standing

2\. "Stay standing."

-/-

 _Stay standing._

 _Stay standing._

 _Stay standing._

Two feet on the ground. Steady. Not difficult.

Two feet… on the ground.

 _Stay standing._

Porthos blinked, widened his eyes and attempted to keep his focus ignorant of the buzzing through his head. The world spun anyway. He clenched his fists.

 _Stay standing, stay standing, stay standing._

When he blinked again he sensed more than saw the meaningful look Athos and Aramis exchanged with each other.

"Don't do that," he growled, then took a breath. _Stay standing, stay standing._ "I'm just... bored, you know. You know how much I love... parades."

Even if fainting would be something to do, it wasn't something he wanted to do.

 _Stay standing!_

Though if he did fall, what a production that would be, eh?

Porthos would have smirked at the private thought, if he didn't think the effort would do him in.

A gray haze was flirting with his vision. _God, please._

"What do we do?" d'Artagnan whispered, sounding panicked beneath the earnest tone.

Aramis's voice, when it came, was far more sedate, but just as worried. Porthos could tell. "You were injured in the skirmish this morning," he hissed. "Why didn't you say something?"

"Not hardly," Porthos denied – _stay standing, stay standing_ – "Just that one bugger, caught me in the head with that weird gauntlet thing." The effort to explain made his muscles tremble. He closed his eyes, squinting against the sun. _Stay standing. Stay standing._

 _"Stay standing."_

"What was that?" Athos caught.

"Nothing." Porthos breathed. "Just… stay standing… you know... over there. Don't worry 'bout me." _Stay standing, stay standing, stay standing._

"I have a feeling this is about to become very dramatic," Aramis predicted.

 _Stay standing stay standing stay standing,_ Porthos willed, clenching his jaw. "Aaah," he hissed through his teeth. "Bugger." He kept his voice low but released it aloud. "Stay standing, stay standing stay standing – _damn_."

"Gentlemen," Athos ordered.

The edges of Porthos's vision turned to ebony as his comrade advocates closed in around him. At which point he felt he had no choice but to give in to the ultimate humiliation. "Least for a little while, no one will be bored," he mumbled, and faded, never aware of whether or not he hit the ground.

-/-

When he woke again, it was dark, but not so much that he couldn't see the arms gesturing over him.

"The giant awakes," he heard. D'Artagnan's voice. As dry and as steadily benign as Athos's or Aramis's might be, just less practiced at covering the emotion underneath. "Are you all right?"

"Give him a moment," Athos said. "Push him too quickly and he may wish his head had been amputated."

Porthos unglued his heavy mouth. "Pessimist."

Aramis laughed, rubbing a soothing hand across his belly. "How do you feel?"

Porthos considered, breathed in as he did so and located the ache at the side of his head. "That depends. How well did the crowd enjoy our drama?"

"The crowd," said Athos, "was the queen, the king, his four cousins, and their few attendants. And I believe they appreciated the break from the monotony of the king's discourse."

"It gave us the chance to share tales about the heroics you engaged in while defending the king's relations during our travels this morning," d'Artagnan spun helpfully.

"We made you sound quite valiant," Aramis said. "The king's cousins were more than happy to help us embellish the tale."

"Hey," Porthos balked, slapping expectedly at Aramis's thigh. "My acts don't require embellishment." He closed his eyes as he smiled, appreciating the existent teasing. His voice dropped. "But of course you know how much I love praise and glory."

"Two of your favorite things," Aramis agreed.

Athos huffed, and Porthos sniffed, enjoying the strange serenity the familiar exchanges were creating in his mind. The pounding headache was retreating, calmed to a dull pulse behind his ear.

What time was it?

Night?

Afternoon?

He should probably try to stand, Porthos thought, and presently opened his eyes, gathering his muscles.

"Stay down, Porthos," Aramis said seriously. "No need to stand now. Rest."

 _Rest,_ Porthos mouthed, running the word through his weary mind.

"Yes," Athos soothed, settling a hand upon his chest. "Just for now."

-/-

(2/5)


	3. Stay Awake

3\. "Stay awake."

-/-

" _Ahh_. Come on now, stay awake," Aramis mouthed to himself, pinching the bridge of his nose as he shuffled through the slippery glow of twilight to stare out the window. _Stay awake._

The crushing boom of Sicart's cannon fire ricocheted through his memory, heedless of the peaceful picture the port from this view presented. Aramis's ears ached with it, ringing dully. Underneath, his head felt gray and foggy. There were ghosts running through it, reenacting the tragic comedies of the week's violence and flight. Presenting, over and over, the folly of their objectively successful mission and their hampered retreat.

 _Stay awake._

Before him, the sun sank another centimeter. Behind him, Aramis's heavy shadow elongated, the stretch of it dragging at his bones. For the loosest of seconds, he leaned a light fist onto the windowsill, then jerked upright, spinning around and blinking wildly. "Stay awake," he said aloud — too loudly.

 _Stay awake, stay awake, stay awake!_

Under his breath, he swore, and paced, and stared at the beds.

In the corner, Porthos's slack features revealed no sign of returning infection, but Aramis walked towards him anyway, resting the pistol momentarily away from his grip as he wound back the compress over Porthos's ribs, checking and re-checking. "Still clean," he murmured, looking up, as though Porthos would hear him.

Porthos, of course, said nothing.

"No more fever. See now, like I said."

Heedless, Porthos breathed, steadily. In and out. In and out. Until his features blurred beneath Aramis's stare and Aramis jerked upright, snatching the pistol up as he stood. He glanced from the window to the door, bouncing on his feet.

 _Stay awake, you fool, stay awake!_

He thumped a finger against the bruising on his own forehead and shook himself. _Stay awake._

 _Stay awake. Stay awake. Stayawakestayawakestayawake._

He made the voice giving the order sound like Athos. Then he made it sound like Porthos. And he paced.

Dust motes floated through the pale light.

Behind him, d'Artagnan produced a disturbed snore.

"D'Artagnan?" Aramis stepped closer. D'Artagnan's eyes remained closed. His whole body motionless. His knee looked more swollen than before — his face more sallow than the weak light could take credit for.

Standing over him, Aramis worried, and considered.

If Secart found them again… If the innkeeper gave them up… or someone gave the innkeeper up… or they had to move again…

Or Aramis fell asleep...

Blinking heavily, Aramis spun. The movement backfired. A spark of dizziness zipped up his spine and he slapped a palm to the wall for support.

They could not stay here forever.

Secart had too many contacts in the city. Plus the magistrate and half the port men in his pocket. Things as they were, sooner or later, he would find revenge for his stopped cargo, his sunken cannon.

From the window in this third location, Aramis had marked some of the searchers, banging doors and traversing streets with brutish thoroughness.

Even if no one gave them up, eventually they would be found here, and when they were, Aramis and his pistol would hardly be the most reliable defense. Not now.

His hands were starting to shake.

Bouncing on his toes, he found himself wishing for Athos and his bucket of watery ice. His eyes had been gathering dust for three and a half days.

 _Stay awake._

 _Stay awake._

 _Stay awake, you idiot, stay awake._

Somewhere below the floorboards under his feet, he heard laughter, grotesque laughter, like the sound of a cackling witch. Then an abrupt and disturbing silence.

His heart thumped.

Wildly, he blinked at the locked door. The thin bracing. The roughened wood. Hardly a fortress.

 _"Awake now, Aramis, stay awake,"_ he mumbled, then bit his lips to keep quiet. There was a creek on the stair. Then another. And another. Footsteps.

His head swam. The pistol shook as he lifted it. His skin flooded with the weight of impending failure.

He glanced at his brothers, watching them fade as his vision blurred.

 _No. Not yet!_

 _Stay awake, Aramis. Stay awake._

 _Stay awake, stay awake, stay awake._

He would get off at least one shot.

He would make it count.

Before him, the door rattled. A key breaching their defense from the outside.

The knob turned, the door opened, and Aramis exhaled, dropping his arm in the nick of time. He bowed his head, a sound emerging from his throat that he couldn't muffle.

"Athos."

"Aramis." Swiftly, Athos strode across the room, catching him up in an uncompromising embrace just as his pistol fell from his fingers to the floor.

-/-

Sleep loomed, but Aramis's mind rebelled. He jerked, blinking his eyes open. "Porthos remains in danger of fever," he said.

Athos's hands rested patiently on his shoulders. "I know. You told me."

Aramis eased his head back, felt it touch heavily against the thin pillow, then jerked it up again. "D'Artagnan shouldn't walk yet. Can't. Not yet. Physician... there should be a physician. Got in the way of a side blast. Took a knock to his head. Saved my life."

Athos moved, briefly touching the bruising above Aramis's eyebrow. "I know. You said."

"Secart…"

"Is in the custody of Treville who is with Poncet's reserve troop. Go to sleep, Aramis."

Rolling his head left to right, Aramis blinked, glanced up, and felt an odd moment of dissonance as his last sliver of remaining clarity registered the unrestrained worry on Athos's face.

"Athos," he said, as lazily as he could manage, though it only came out breathless. "If it doesn't trouble you, I've been considering a nap."

The tension eased from around Athos's mouth. He nearly smiled. "Have you now?"

"Yes."

"Are you sure you need it?"

"Hmm." Aramis blinked, barely forcing his eyelids back up. "A mere indulgence, perhaps. If you'll allow."

"Quite," said Athos.

"Athos—"

"Go to sleep, Aramis. They're being looked after." Athos was running a thumb back and forth over the hair behind Aramis's ear. "Go to sleep."

Aramis waited, watching his face. Then, consciously letting his eyes droop, fell into sleep.

-/-

(3/5)


	4. I've Got This

4\. "I've got this."

-/-

 _I've got this._

Constance exhaled calmly, traversing the rocky ground at a steady pace.

 _I've got this._

The entire atmosphere evoked the memory of the chilled landscape she'd traversed the first time she'd been roped into helping them. Back when she'd hardly known them as a collective, yet had been convinced to dress as a prostitute for the benefit of an awkwardly created distraction.

That aspect was absent this time, at least, _thank goodness._

She was remembering she'd killed someone that night.

She fully expected she would do so this night as well. And would approach it clearer to the purpose.

"I've got this," she said, under her breath as she walked, weighing the balance of the sword in her hand. _I've got this._

Overall, she felt more confident with a pistol, and for swords felt better clutching Athos's old blade rather than this one of Aramis's.

Still, it would do.

 _I've got this._

Down the slope and approaching a narrow bridge, she saw the guard near the beleaguered stone archway straighten to her approach.

 _I've got this._

He saw her skirt and cape, but not the sword below her cloak, she was sure. He was large. Not the half-drunk buffoon she'd once bested to protect Aramis and the baby he'd been holding at the time. Still, she thought. _I've got this._

She slowed her breathing as she neared and smiled, feeling the sick, anticipatory tremble below her ribs. _I've got this._

His hand hovered near his waist and his weapons as she drew close. Hesitant in his wavering. Uncertain of a woman. She went for that hand first, as Porthos had counseled her, slicing into the man's wrist then bashing the blunt weight of the pommel into his head while surprise still stayed his tongue.

He dropped to the weeds like a sack of grain, trapping her skirt on the way down.

Gasping, she tugged and tripped, then caught her balance. Breathed, and breathed again.

 _I've got this. I've got this._

Going to her knees, she stripped the guard of his weapons and found the keys. Tucking them up under her cloak, she continued down the path, feeling her heart beat through her chest. _I've got this_.

The second guard she waited for, standing in the shadow of the brick and letting him come to her. He went down almost as silently as the first, if not quite as quickly, and the absence of his vigilance left the courtyard clear. _I've got this._

The cell was easy to find in the moonlight, even set into the dark part of the stone ruins as it was.

It took no time at all to jiggle open the lock.

"Bless you, Constance." Athos smiled as she freed his wrists from the bolted chains on the floor. Standing with a grunt, he took the keys from her and passed them over to Porthos before moving back into the shadows, where, she could see now, Aramis and d'Artagnan were standing on their toes, arms stretched into chains above their heads.

"D'Artagnan!"

"Constance," d'Artagnan answered, voice strained as Porthos released his wrists. He dropped with a cry into Athos's arms, where he stood blinking precariously before finding his feet and staring at her. "What are you doing here?"

She sidled close at once, taking his weight as Porthos and Athos repeated the same procedure with Aramis.

"Idiot! What do you think I'm doing here?"

D'Artagnan made a valiant effort to straighten. "You shouldn't be here. You shouldn't have come!"

Bonelessly limp in Porthos's arms, Aramis propped his chin on Porthos's shoulder and squinted balefully. "Her I like; him I'm not sure about."

D'Artagnan glared. "You know what I mean! It's not safe!" He looked piqued enough to continue, but his ire pulled at some hidden injury and he folded with a moan onto her neck.

"Are you alright?"

Wearily, d'Artagnan nodded into her hair.

"What about him?" she said, watching Porthos drape a disconcertingly silent Aramis over his shoulder with Athos's help.

"Better for being out of those chains," answered Porthos.

"Therefore, we thank you," said Athos, circling back to collect d'Artagnan from her arms. "D'Artagnan as well." Running a quelling hand over d'Artagnan's smooth mane, Athos angled them around. Then, facing her, lifted an eyebrow. "Now. Exit plan?"

She nodded, once, resolutely gripping her sword into a ready tilt. "I've got this."

"Lead on, merciful rescuer," mumbled Aramis. "Lead on."

"Thank you, Constance," Porthos said firmly.

"Thank you, Constance," d'Artagnan repeated.

-/-

(4/5)


	5. They're Not Dead

5\. "They're not dead."

-/-

 _They're not dead._

 _They're not dead._

"They're not dead." The words brushed over Athos's lips silently. Unconsciously, and vaguely formed. A high-pitched buzzing rang through his ears, undercutting the sensation of rushing wind below his eardrums. The harsh tang of blood and gunpowder stuck like glue under his nose.

 _They're not dead._

He staggered, turning his body in a dull circle. Rubble and blood. Manicured grass and an insultingly blue sky. How could he have led them this way?

Had he led them this way?

The ringing in his ears breached to a crescendo, then went absolutely silent.

"They're not dead," he rumbled, aloud, purposefully, but he couldn't hear it. "They're not dead," he said again, louder, then louder, turning round and round to find some trace of... some _trace_ , and was met with nothing but a vacuum of sound. _They're not dead, they're not dead, they're not dead. THEY'RE NOT DEAD! They're_ —

He was stopped abruptly by two hands on his doublet, and nearly couldn't register it when Porthos's face swam into view. He stared, uncomprehending, following Porthos's gaze when it flickered to the right, and the hands on his person and the face in front of him became Aramis's. _They're not dead._

Aramis's brow was furrowed and his lips were moving but no sound was coming out. A second later Aramis's hands groped upward, pressing softly over Athos's ears, then loosening tenderly to grip behind them, firmly holding him steady and turning his head. Athos brought his hands up at that, gripping at Aramis's wrists, but saw what Aramis was showing him—d'Artagnan approaching them, running down the hillside through the trees.

Just as quickly, Aramis brought his face back to lock their gazes, lips still moving, worry in his eyes. Staring back, Athos gasped and exhaled, exhaled again, and again, and through the warm grip around his head finally felt a measure of sound return to the world. Realizing only then that he himself was still speaking. "They're not dead, they're not dead, they're not dead." _They're not dead._

He stopped himself abruptly, glanced at Porthos then returned to Aramis.

"No, Athos," Aramis said clearly. "We're not."

-/-

(5/5)

However, not marking the work as complete yet, as it turns out there will be a few bonus mantras.


	6. By the Intercession of St Michael

First Bonus Mantra. "By the intercession of St. Michael."

-/-

"By the intercession of St. Michael, oh God, come to my assistance. Oh Lord, make haste to help me," Aramis intoned. The sky shimmered, blue to gray. He bowed his head, focusing perversely on his white knuckles, watching them flex and tighten over the rail-grip without conscious command. "Come Lord, by the intercession of St. Michael, have mercy on me, a sinner."

His knuckles turned translucent.

The world tilted before him and he closed his eyes.

"By the intercession... By the intercession of… St. Michael… By the…"

 _By the..._

 _By the..._

Beneath his feet, the floor rolled. With it, a wave of shivering discomfort broke over his muscles, and he folded. Jamming his ribs over the rail topping the bulwark, he breathed into the sea, rebalancing his feet to no benefit. "By the intercession of St. Michael," he prayed sincerely, "be our protection against… against… oh, God."

"How's he doing?" he heard, whispered from somewhere behind him. Porthos's voice. Solid and seaworthy as a whale. And just as smug. The forecastle rat.

Determinedly, he eased upright, squaring his shoulders into dramatic nonchalance without turning around. Soft, planked flooring wobbled under his heels. The horizon swung neatly out of focus and he repented, jolting forward. _By the intercession of St. Michael..._

"He's thrown up nine times already," answered d'Artagnan, sounding somewhat awed. "We're barely past the inlet. I'd thought the two of you were joking."

"They _were_ joking," Aramis bit pettily, then stiffened as the deck bounced.

"No, we weren't," Porthos and Athos said in unison.

Rolling his gaze left, chin balanced on his knuckles, Aramis briefly contemplated the logistics of loading himself into the carronade. "I hate all three of you."

A moment later he stood on his toes and heaved again.

"That's ten in under forty. This one's to you, Athos," Porthos remarked.

"Hmm."

Aramis felt a hand on his back, urging him upright. He tried to ignore it, but nevertheless miserably met Athos's gaze. "By the intercession… of... St. Michael…" Cutting himself off, he frowned. "Perhaps it is the wrong prayer," he reasoned, letting Athos drag against his arm. "There are religious orders in the north that insist France is the only Catholic country to credit St. Michael with stewardship over the sea. They claim the patron is St. Nicholas."

"Aramis," chided Athos, ignoring the theologizing to touch a hand against his neck, "Come below."

Shakily, Aramis sighed. Athos took firmer hold of his shoulder, then wrapped an arm around his waist to help him straighten.

"Yea, though I sail treacherously through the sea of death, I shall fear no... water sprite's… undulations," Aramis tried.

Stepping forward, Porthos pushed his hair back, just a hint of worry in his eyes. "Didn't Father Dinouart warn against vain repetitions in his speech after Sunday mass?"

"Blasphemy," cursed Aramis, leaning and letting Porthos take the remainder of his balance through the next swaying wave. "My words are nothing but the most sincere."

"Of course." Porthos grinned mockingly, but took care to hug him before handing him fully back to Athos.

"Come," repeated Athos. "You're with me."

"I've not finished throwing up yet."

"You have," Athos ordered, as though the waves and sky and boat all had no choice but to obey him. "Come below."

"Lord, make haste…" Aramis mumbled, letting himself be moved.

Behind them, Porthos sounded hesitant. "Eh, Athos, I can take care of him this time."

"I've got him," Athos countered. His hand was warm against Aramis's chilled skin as he steadied the arm over his shoulders. "As you said, it's my turn. Besides. You like running the sails far too much to be denied the opportunity."

"What about me?" d'Artagnan asked.

"Go with Porthos. Don't get seasick."

"Not possible," d'Artagnan snarked. "Not like him, anyway."

Aramis shivered. "Ingrate." His glare was short lived.

Soon enough, and by nothing short of miraculous means, Aramis found himself below, slung into a berth with Athos running a hand up and down his back in rhythmic anchor.

"Thank you," Aramis murmured eventually, pressing his forehead unabashedly against Athos's ribs. "Thank you."

"Try to sleep," Athos said, imperiously soft. Aramis could hear his smile. "And, you're welcome."

-/-

We all must have our play on Aramis and seasickness, apparently.


End file.
